


saut dans le vide, my lover

by armsoftheocean



Series: this is all yours [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, M/M, also sleepover in 3x06 BUT ONLY THE CUTE FLUFFY PART, ian falling in love basically?, my sweet lil angels, this is basically just word vomit tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3106181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armsoftheocean/pseuds/armsoftheocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ian sees Mickey’s smiling response, he can’t help but smile wider with his eyes lighting up and he knows he looks fucking ridiculous; beaming as if Mickey had handed him the key to the universe, but his heart is thrumming with happiness and <em>fuck</em>, he’s so far gone that he doesn’t even give a shit. </p>
            </blockquote>





	saut dans le vide, my lover

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics in the title/beginning/end of fic are from [**Nara by Alt-J**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MtmrYisoxXA&spfreload=10)

_i’ve discovered a man like no other man,_

_i’ve found a love to love like no other can_

* * *

When he meets Mickey Milkovich – _really_ meets him; not those few seconds of Lip selling him an English paper or buying weed from him – his first thoughts consist of being scared shitless, considering the fact he’s backed up by two of his massive brothers, screaming murder and banging on the back door at the Kash and Grab. 

Things quickly change, and before he knows it he has Mickey bent over and he’s fucking him into the mattress, his chest slick with sweat and pressed up against Mickey’s back. The air’s thick with moans and grunts and breathless gasps, and his skin is bruised and sore from Mickey throwing him into the wall earlier, but the pain subsides and the rush of adrenaline takes over as he slams in and out of Mickey. It’s a mix of pain and pleasure and he fucking loves it; he loves the burn in his thighs and the ache in his ribs when his body bends at the wrong angle over Mickey’s back; he likes the taste of blood on his lips and how the surrounding air filled with muffled groans – it makes his head feel heady and thick and all he wants to do is freeze this instant in time.

Being with Mickey was different than being with Kash and Roger Spikey. With Kash, the excitement was in the secret and the illicit nature of their relationship. With Roger Spikey, it was just a couple of blow jobs and quick fucks in the boys locker room; it was purely convenience and accessibility. 

He doesn’t know why it’s different with Mickey, but it is; he can feel Mickey’s essence seeping deep into his skin and settling into his bones in a way that makes Ian feel like his body is vibrating with energy and joy, and something else that Ian can’t place his finger on. But it’s there and it’s tangible and it makes his head cloud over with utter and complete happiness. 

He tells himself that when Mickey threatens to cut his tongue out of his mouth if he kisses him, Ian’s okay with that. _Things are different, things will change, things will be better._

He repeats this mantra over and over in his head every time Mickey leaves him hanging or pushes him away because he knows that growing up in the Southside can fuck over someone’s head, especially when it comes to shit like being gay and growing up with a homophobic father who treated fag bashing like a family tradition. He accepts the fact that Mickey isn’t ready to move their relationship – or whatever the fuck they’re doing – to the next step because really, he hasn’t accepted himself for who he is. 

Every time Mickey fights and pushes against Ian, there’s a niggling part of his subconscious in the back of his mind that’s taunting him and telling him that Mickey will never be ready to move forward; never be ready to take the jump and be free and accept himself for who he is.

* * *

“Hey, Mick?” he says, breaking the silence as the two of them lean against the fence in the baseball diamond, worn out from their second round.

Mickey makes a noise in reply, signalling to Ian to continue. 

“Think we’ll ever get out of here?” Ian asks, and he regrets those words the second they leave his mouth as a look of amusement and shock plays across Mickey’s features.

“Yeah, right,” Mickey replies with a snort, “only way I’m gettin’ out is when I’m six feet under once Terry finds out I take it up the ass.” 

“Oh come on!” Ian protests, cuffing Mickey over the back of his neck. “We just gotta try, y’know?”

Mickey pauses, his blue eyes raking over Ian’s hopeful and eager face, taking in his expression. 

“There’s no _we_ , Gallagher.” 

* * *

Ian knows he shouldn’t push Mickey but he knows the older boy feels more for him than he says he does. He sees it in the quirk of his lips when he visits him in juvie, and the way he lets Ian’s thighs press up against his on the sofa when they’re playing video games with Mandy. He knows Mickey feels more when he actually listens to Ian when Monica shows up, and the way he taunts Kash afterwards, getting a bullet in the leg for it. That feeling — the way Mickey lets him in, albeit selectively, is how he knows Mickey isn’t faking anything. He was a drug dealing convict, not an actor. 

So he ignores everything Lip tells him, and continues to get sucked in deeper to Mickey’s orbit. Before Ian realises, he’s too far in and it’s too late to escape.

He feels the first pinpricks in his chest when Mickey would rather be locked up in juvie than admit to the fact he likes fucking guys instead of girls; would rather go to juvie for stealing a fucking chocolate bar than admit to liking Ian.

* * *

 He lies to Lip and Mandy when he tells them he has work so he can visit Mickey at juvie more often.

Mickey insists that Ian doesn’t show up more than once a week, but Ian’s glad he’s willing to let him come regardless. 

“It’l look weird, man. You don’t look like my brothers or anything either,” Mickey mutters into the phone. 

“Sure as fuck hope I’m not your brother, otherwise what we’ve been doing isn’t right,” Ian says, unable to restrain the full-blown grin at his own joke. 

Mickey lets out a snort, a small smile pulling at his lips unwillingly. When Ian sees Mickey’s smiling response, he can’t help but smile wider with his eyes lighting up and he knows he looks fucking ridiculous; beaming as if Mickey had handed him the key to the universe, but his heart is thrumming with happiness and _fuck_ , he’s so far gone that he doesn’t even give a shit. 

“You look like an idiot,” Mickey says into the phone, still smiling. 

Ian doesn’t realise when it happened, but his hand had inched its way towards the glass again, aching to trace the curved edges of Mickey’s pink lips and he wants to run his hands through his messy dark hair, and bite at the curve of his shoulder and neck, tasting his warm skin and leaving his mark.

This time, Mickey doesn’t tell him to take his hand off the glass; he only looks around at the other inmates, taking note of the fact no one’s really there or seems to give a shit about him before rolling his eyes. They spend the rest of the visitation with Mickey asking Ian meaningless questions about what’s been going on with Mandy and life in the Gallagher household. 

Ian pockets this visit as a tick in his _win_ column. 

* * *

He knows Mickey’s still fucking terrified, because overtime he tries broaching the subject of anything actually intimate during his visits, Mickey bristles and changes the topic abruptly. But Ian tells himself that it’s okay; it’s normal to be scared. 

And it’s okay in the end, because Mickey finds him and they pick up where they left off. The weather’s hot and sticky when they go to the baseball fields at night, and all they have are a couple of lukewarm beers and joints to cool them down after fucking, but Ian doesn’t really give a shit; he wouldn’t trade these moments for anything in the world.

* * *

 Getting Linda to offer Mickey a job was, quite possibly, the best fucking idea Ian’s had in his entire life. Mickey doesn’t get worried about being seen with Ian anymore, because they practically spend half their days together now, fucking in the backroom or talking about meaningless shit while Ian lounges behind the cash register and Mickey leans against the counter. 

“Westpoint still a thing, huh?” Mickey asks casually one afternoon, just after Ian had finished ringing up a customer.

Ian nods, his stomach fluttering slightly at the fact Mickey _remembers_ ; he remembers all the shit that Ian rambles on about and Ian loves it. He’s never had someone focus so much attention on only him; as if everything he said was important and worth remembering. 

“So you gonna leave this shithole?” Mickey adds, brushing a hand through his hair. 

“That’s the plan,” Ian says, hoping the next two years go well and he can get into the school. 

Mickey opens his mouth to reply, but the door of the store pushes open and there’s a kid who can’t be more than ten, asking for a pack of cigarettes. Mickey rolls his eyes, holding out his palm. The kid scowls, slapping an extra ten in his palm before taking the pack of cigarettes Ian hands him, smiling in amusement. 

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Mickey says sarcastically as the kid flips him the bird while leaving. 

“Good business,” Ian laughs.

Mickey shoots him a half smile, before they fall into silence.

“You could come, you know,” Ian murmurs after a few minutes.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Mickey replies lowly, turning away abruptly. 

Ian feels his chest constrict, and _fuck_ – before Mickey Milkovich he hadn’t realised it was physically possible for his heart to actually hurt. 

* * *

But it’s so fucking _frustrating_ because Ian wants _more_ and Mickey won’t give in. Ian feels like they’re stuck in a limbo, going neither backwards nor forwards. 

Ian was the relentless, unstoppable force and Mickey was the immovable, unshakeable object. They weren’t compatible, they were too different, too volatile.

And then they’re in the backroom, with Ian prepping Mickey’s ass with practised ease, when Mickey flips around abruptly, his blue eyes uneasy and his brow lined with trepidation; that’s when things change. Mickey lets Ian fuck him face-to-face, with one leg wrapped precariously around Ian’s slim waist and another hitched up on a freckled shoulder, with his hand gripping tightly at Ian’s arm as Ian slowly thrusts in and out. 

It’s intimate and terrifying, but in the best way possible. Ian’s heart races faster than it usually does, the pull in his groin getting unbearable as he moves in and out, slowing down his pace so Mickey can feel the length of him with every thrust. His eyes drift down towards Mickey’s blue ones, which are fixed on Ian’s collarbone until they flutter shut and his lips part open slightly in ecstasy. Mickey’s pink tongue comes out and licks his lips, followed by another groan and it takes all of Ian’s self-control to not let a breathless _I love you_ tumble out from his mouth. 

The second he realises he was _in_ love with Mickey Milkovich caused a sharp pain to zing up into his chest, before he relaxed and accepted it. It made sense; he felt whole and complete and different. It was as if he’d finally realised that he didn’t need the upscale lifestyle with bottles of wine that cost more money than he’d ever see; he didn’t need anything except Mickey and a cheap can of beer and stale weed in the baseball dugout. 

Ian can feel himself slipping closer and closer towards the edge, and when Mickey’s bright blue eyes connect with his own, his tongue goes dry and he nearly comes then, until Mickey hisses out, “not _yet_ , Gallagher.” 

Ian’s eyes focus in on Mickey’s eyes which are clouded over with lust, and the way his chest is flushed and the way the sweat clings to his brow, and the way his lips look so warm and inviting. Ian has to exercise all his self-control to not slam his lips against Mickey’s and kiss him so thoroughly that they’d both be left as a pile of shaking limbs and panting breaths. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s celebrating over such huge shifts in their relationship, until he hears a familiar voice from behind him.

_“Hello, boys.”_

* * *

Upon Frank’s appearance Mickey swears loudly, and unhooks his leg from Ian’s shoulder before pushing Ian off of him roughly and yanking up his boxers. He’s yelling in the store and pulling on his jacket, saying that they could kill Frank, no one would ever need to know.

“We shoot him in the head; we dump him in the river!” Mickey says, moving around, his voice short and clipped.

If Mickey wasn’t so angry, Ian would laugh at Mickey’s melodrama and call him cute.

“Look, he has a lousy short-term memory; he’s probably already forgotten,” Ian tries reasoning with him, knowing that Frank probably wouldn’t give a damn either way, considering half the time he couldn’t remember his own kids’ names on the rare occasions he was sober. 

But Mickey’s eyes are raging with fury and he’s out the door and Ian can feel him slipping away again, pulling further and further away. Ian thought that maybe, just maybe, they had been moving somewhere with their relationship. 

Mickey never let him fuck face-to-face; he never let Ian see the ecstasy on his face or the way his eyes would roll back in his head and the way his chest would flush red when he came. He never let Ian hear the soft noises and moans that slipped from his mouth, usually muffled with a pillow or his arm. But then Mickey’s backing away again; running, since he was too fucking scared of anyone finding out about who he really was. 

Ian thinks he can handle Mickey’s anger, as long as it prevents him from finding Frank. He knows when Mickey says he’ll kill someone, they’d either need to run or they’d end up in a lake a few hours north. Ian doesn't really give a shit about Frank, but he does give a shit about Mickey. And if Mickey kills Frank, he’d probably be doing twenty-five to life in jail, and fuck if Ian will let a piece of shit like Frank ruin the one thing that makes him happy. 

When Mickey says they’re done, it doesn’t really connect in Ian’s mind because Mickey’s always like this; his response to Ian has always been flight, he’s never stayed and fought. But then his eyes turn cold, the blue in them chilling Ian to the bone, and the only thing echoing in his mind is _warm mouth warm mouth warm mouth._  

And so maybe that’s all Ian ever was to anyone; to Kash, to Mickey. Just a warm mouth; a guy with a dick who won't out them and will get them off in secret before they could go back to their lives, pretending to be something they’re not. He can feel tears stinging his eyes when Mickey storms out of the store, and he adds that to the list of reasons why he’s had his head and heart fucked over by Mickey Milkovich. 

* * *

 He doesn’t see Mickey again until he’s fucking some kid from ROTC under the bleachers, who won’t shut his goddamn mouth, and Ian begins to wonder if an orgasm is even worth listening to the idiot spout his soldier-pounding fantasy bullshit. He tries to pretend that it’s Mickey he’s balls-deep in, but the obnoxious voice deters him from doing so. Instead, he slams in and out, and sex with anyone who wasn’t Mickey feels like a chore. 

Then Mickey shows up.

Ian’s shocked, thinking that Mickey wouldn’t come back to him after he went to juvie again; that Mickey was still running from who he really was, unable to accept that what they had was real. 

When the words " _missed ya_ " slip out of Mickey’s mouth as he lights up a cigarette, Ian can’t help but get a dopey smile on his face, a ray of warmth shooting into his chest. 

“You did?” Ian can hear the hope in his voice, and hopes Mickey doesn’t pick up on it.

“Yeah man, I had to do all the fucking in juvie. Otherwise I’d end up as someone’s bitch, right? Nice to switch back.”

He shouldn’t be upset that Mickey fucked other guys, considering the fact he was balls deep in another guy minutes before Mickey showed up. But the anger and jealousy of Mickey being able to fuck guys he didn’t even know but wouldn’t let Ian kiss him causes a pinching sensation in his chest. 

The initial flush of warmth quickly disappears, and Ian’s reminded that maybe only wants him for his body. It’s convenient; they’re both South Side so they’d be protecting their own asses for not outing each other. He just wishes Mickey could see that it wasn’t just sex for Ian. 

The words _warm mouth_ echo inside his head like an unrelenting song, tainting his every thought.

* * *

Ian gets his wish. The two days that Ian and Mickey spend together – fucking around, drinking beer, watching movies – were probably the best couple days that Ian had ever had in his life. 

Ian’s not that thickheaded; he knows Mickey was nervous about asking him over. Mickey had these tells that Ian could pick up on even if he was miles away – he’d swipe at his lip and rub his nose, his eyes flicking back and forth, but Ian can’t help but tease him, practically preening at the light blush that rises in Mickey’s cheeks.

He relishes the not-so-secret glances Mickey tosses his way every few seconds when they’re sitting next to each other on the couch, with their bodies pressed up against each other from waist to ankle. He smiles extra-wide when Mickey offers him extra beers and cooks for him (as far as Ian’s convinced, baking frozen junk food was a million times better than the expensive room service Ned used to order for him). 

Ian likes to think of himself as an opportunist, so he makes sure to kiss Mickey with soft, chaste pecks and hot, open-mouthed kisses every chance he gets. Mickey doesn’t pull away or tell him to fuck off; instead, everytime, he kisses Ian back. It’s fucking perfect and beautiful and Ian wants this day to last forever. 

They fuck practically everywhere in the house, beginning with the living room and moving to the kitchen, before taking a break and watching some shitty TV. 

That night, he kisses Mickey slowly and languidly in his small bed, taking the time to learn how to pull soft moans from Mickey’s throat with a simple press of his lips and a nip with his teeth. He takes the time to explore every crevice in Mickey’s mouth with his tongue, wanting to memorise every aspect of his body and to know it better than his own. 

He unknowingly lets out a yawn with his lips still pressed against Mickey, causing him to snort and pull away from Ian. 

“Whined about not being able to kiss me for a fucking year then you get bored of me in a few days, Gallagher?” he grouches, a teasing light in his eyes.

“You wore me out!” Ian argues.

“Didn’t hear you complaining when your dick was up my ass,” Mickey snipes back. “Go to sleep, we have tomorrow.”

Ian attempts to suppress the grin thats threatening to break through because of Mickey’s words, and he pulls away hesitantly, attempting to get comfortable without smothering Mickey to death in his sleep. He wants to reach out and bury Mickey’s face in his neck and smell his hair, but he doesn’t want to scare him with too much. Mickey had already given him so much today and he didn’t want to push.

They’re lying side by side and flat on their backs for a few minutes before Mickey makes an exasperated sound, snaking an arm over Ian’s stomach and yanking the redhead’s body into his own, adjusting him accordingly. 

“Gotta make a show out of everything, don’t you?” he hears Mickey mumble against Ian’s throat, with his face buried deep into Ian’s neck. 

Ian doesn’t stop himself from smiling now, and he falls asleep with the words _we have tomorrow_ echoing inside his head. 

* * *

When Ian wakes up, he can feel Mickey’s body coiled around him tightly. He lies in bed for the next forty-five minutes with a stupid smile on his face, his lips pressed against the back of Mickey’s neck, unwilling to break the tranquility of the moment. When Mickey begins to stir in his arms, he tightens his grip. 

“You’re like a fucking furnace,” Mickey mumbles sleepily, attempting to extract his arms to rub at his eyes. Ian simply smiles wider, yanking Mickey back into bed and rubbing his nose at the hollow of his collarbone. 

He loves the sound of Mickey’s scratchy voice in the morning and the warmth emanating from his body, and when Mickey begins to move around in his arms and against his crotch, he can feel his cock hardening against Mickey’s ass. He hears Mickey chuckle lowly before quickly wrapping his hands around Ian’s forearms, holding him down as he moves to straddle Ian’s hips, yanking their boxers down quickly with a smirk. 

Ian slicks his fingers up, inserting two fingers inside of Mickey and scissoring him quickly, before slipping a third deeper inside. Mickey’s panting above him, rutting against Ian’s erection with a sinful smile gracing his features. 

Ian’s about to flip him over and push himself inside Mickey, before Mickey’s pressing his palms flat against Ian’s chest, holding him down.

“Come on, Mick,” he groans, his erection throbbing painfully.

“Be patient, jackass. Besides, you said you were tired last night so I’ll do the work,” Mickey retorts, his fingers skating down Ian’s chest and to his hips, holding him down by his pale hips. 

Before Ian can ask what the fuck Mickey means by doing the work for him, Mickey’s hand is grasped tightly around his cock, his fingers teasing the tip slightly and smearing the pre-come. He’s grabbing the bottle of lube and squeezing some out onto his palms, slicking Ian up quickly.

Ian tries to shift his weight onto his elbows to sit himself up, before Mickey pushes him down again. 

“What the hell are you doing, Mickey,” Ian says breathlessly, as Mickey’s hand works him up and down.

“Stay down, idiot and be patient,” Mickey hisses back.

Before Ian can begin to protest, Mickey abruptly lifts himself up, and seats himself onto Ian’s cock in one smooth motion.

Ian lets out a choked sound, his eyes rolling into the back of his head before his brain is screaming at him to look at Mickey.

“Holy shit. Oh my god, holy – _fuck_ ,” Ian hisses, because all he can feel is Mickey’s tight warmth around him, and the weight of him on his lap and _fuck_ , the pleased expression on Mickey’s face as he shifts slightly, beginning to move himself up and down on Ian’s cock. 

He looks up at Mickey, watching the gasps fall from his lips and the way there’s a light sheen of sweat on his pale body, and the way his blue eyes are boring into Ian’s and Ian’s world stops because all he knows is _Mickey Mickey Mickey_ running through his head like a reverent chant. 

When he hears a broken, “ _Ian_ ,” spill from Mickey’s lips, the blood shoots straight down to his cock upon hearing his first name, and he reaches up to jerk Mickey off. His hand movements mirror his thrusts; short, erratic and stilted, and it’s taking all of his self-control to not just fall over the edge at that moment. He wants to feel Mickey shudder and groan; wants to feel Mickey’s come coating his hand as his smaller frame goes boneless on top of him. 

A few minutes later, when he feels himself come down from the high with Mickey’s head buried in his chest and his fingers skating through the thick black hair, he knows it’s unlike anything, and he knows that with Mickey, things are different.

It’s not until after the events unfold the next day that Ian understands the meaning of being careful what you wish for because there’s a raging Terry Milkovich barging in, and that’s when it all goes to shit. 

* * *

  _{unpin your butterflies}_

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this finished for like 2 months but was super reluctant to post it because I didn't really like it but oh well.
> 
> Comments/thoughts/opinions would be appreciated a ton (whether you liked it/disliked it) also: [**tumblr**](http://elizabethdarcy.tumblr.com)


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